


Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St.

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St.

Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St. saw the beast wherever he went. It had been nine years since the island, since the fear and the fighting and all the flames, and yet the beast had not stayed behind. It was with him at all times, in his head and at the corners of his eyes, and at night, in the darkness, it swallowed him whole.

His hair was short-much shorter than it once had been-and there were rings the color of bruises beneath his eyes. He didn’t sleep well anymore. He hadn’t slept well in such a long time.

He had been quiet when he was small, and he was even quieter now, at sixteen. He spoke little, opened up to none, and if you were to approach him suddenly he would turn from you and flinch.

An uncle would try to take him hunting from time to time, and Percival would always refuse. He hadn’t been a hunter. He’d been a littlun. He’d been a littlun, and despite what that boy had said, the bigun with the fat and the specs, the one who hadn’t left with the rest of them, littluns did matter. They were the ones who had started the talk of beasts and things in the trees. They were the ones who had let the others know. They were the ones who had called it up out of the dark. The beast.

They wanted him to become a priest, his parents. To take after his father. Percival had tried to explain to them that he couldn’t believe what they did, tried to talk to them of sticks sharpened at both ends, of face paint and dancing and blood. Of how only that pleased the beast, how only that kept it at bay. His father had not spoken to him for a week, and his mother had looked at him for a very long time and then told him to never speak of such wicked things again.

Neither of them believed, and that frightened Percival. The bigun with the specs hadn’t believed, and he hadn’t come back with them. Oh no, he hadn’t. The beast had had a hand in that, Percival was sure. The fair-haired bigun, the first chief, the one with the gleaming white shell, hadn’t believed either. Not ever. And so the beast had turned the other biguns against him, had set the island ablaze. Those who didn’t believe met bad ends. Percival knew that, and he knew it well.

He was never sure what the beast looked like. When the other littlun, the one with the mark on his face (whatever had happened to him? No matter how hard he tried to remember, Percival didn’t know,) had said that it was like a snake. Others thought that it might have been apelike. The second chief, the one with the face of red and black and white who had terrified Percival and yet held him in awe, had seen it too, and had said it was enormous. As big as an elephant. And then that bigun-the one everyone thought was cracked-had said something about a dead man before he’d become one himself. Percival had thought on this for a long while, and had eventually come to the conclusion that the beast could change its shape. Why couldn’t it? It had sent fire that first time, when the first chief had disbelieved, and it had sent fire again. Surely shapeshifting wouldn’t be beyond it? If it had any shape at all, that was. Sometimes Percival wondered if the beast had any real form. Whether or not it did really didn’t matter anymore, though. Percival had left the island and so had the beast, and now it was in his head and no matter what he did it wouldn’t go away.

Back on the island he had had a way to protect himself from the beast. An incantation against the fright and the worry and the wildness. But he’d forgotten it at the end and he hadn’t been safe any longer. The beast got to him, got up in his head. He thought of it now, and mumbled to himself, his lips barely moving.

“Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St. Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St. Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcort St…”

He didn’t know why it helped, but he remembered how it had. One little whisper, over and over, and the beast couldn’t hurt him. Something about the familiarity fought the beast, fought away its otherness. Percival had said those words too many times to count, after the island and through the years, but they had yet to do away with the beast entirely. Percival wondered whether that was even possible. Unsure, he whispered again,

“Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St. Percival Wemys Madison, the Vicarage, Harcourt St…”’

It had taken Percival a long time to get used to England again. Instead of blinding sun and searing heat, all were clouds and cold. And the clothes-he’d hated having sleeves. The feeling of cloth against skin had just seemed wrong.

The hardest thing to readjust to, though, had been having a family. He hadn’t even remembered who he was by the time that ship and the man in the cap had come, and by the time he was home again he hadn’t any idea who the people who’d collected him were. If he was to be honest, they’d frightened him with all of their crying and clutching. He’d wanted to get away from them somehow. He would have even wanted to go back to the island. Even back to the beast.

But the beast had come along, almost as if it didn’t want him to be lonely. As if it didn’t want him to escape. He’d been a littlun, after all, and the littluns had called the beast, whether into existence or out of some dark, deep place Percival was unsure. But they’d summoned it somehow, and the way the beast seemed to see it, they had an obligation to uphold. No, they weren’t getting away that easily at all.


End file.
